Henrietta Temple: A Love Story
But his physician would not allow him to see any one of his family. It
was at night, and during his slumbers, that Lady Armine stole into his
room to gaze upon her beloved child; and, if he moved in the slightest
degree, faithful to her promise and the injunction of the physician, she
instantly glided behind his curtain, or a large Indian screen which she
had placed there purposely. Often, indeed, did she remain in this fond
lurking-place, silent and trembling, when her child was even awake,
listening to every breath, and envying the nurse that might gaze on him
undisturbed; nor would she allow any sustenance that he was ordered
to be prepared by any but her own fair, fond hands; and she brought it
herself even to his door. For Ferdinand himself, though his replies to
the physician sufficiently attested the healthy calmness of his mind, he
indeed otherwise never spoke, but lay on his bed without repining,
and seemingly plunged in mild and pensive abstraction. At length, one
morning he enquired for Glastonbury, who, with the sanction of the
physician, immediately attended him.
When he met the eye of that faithful friend he tried to extend his hand.
It was so wan that Glastonbury trembled while he touched it.
‘I have given you much trouble,’ he said, in a faint voice.
‘I think only of the happiness of your recovery,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Yes, I am recovered,’ murmured Ferdinand; ‘it was not my wish.’
‘Oh! be grateful to God for this great mercy, my Ferdinand.’
‘You have heard nothing?’ enquired Ferdinand.
Glastonbury shook his head.
‘Fear not to speak; I can struggle no more. I am resigned. I am very
much changed.’
‘You will be happy, dear Ferdinand,’ said Glastonbury, to whom this mood
gave hopes.
‘Never,’ he said, in a more energetic tone; ‘never.’
‘There are so many that love you,’ said Glastonbury, leading his
thoughts to his family.
‘Love!’ exclaimed Ferdinand, with a sigh, and in a tone almost
reproachful.
‘Your dear mother,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Yes! my dear mother,’ replied Ferdinand, musingly. Then in a quicker
tone, ‘Does she know of my illness? Did you write to them?’
‘She knows of it.’
‘She will be coming, then. I dread her coming. I can bear to see no one.
You, dear Glastonbury, you; it is a consolation to see you, because you
have seen,’ and here his voice faltered, ‘you have seen--her.’
‘My Ferdinand, think only of your health; and happiness, believe me,
will yet be yours.’
‘If you could only find out where she is,’ continued Ferdinand, ‘and go
to her. Yes! my dear Glastonbury, good, dear, Glastonbury, go to her,’
he added in an imploring tone; ‘she would believe you; everyone believes
you. I cannot go; I am powerless; and if I went, alas! she would not
believe me.’
‘It is my wish to do everything you desire,’ said Glastonbury, ‘I should
be content to be ever labouring for your happiness. But I can do nothing
unless you are calm.’
‘I am calm; I will be calm; I will act entirely as you wish; only I
beseech you see her.’
‘On that head let us at present say no more,’ replied Glastonbury, who
feared that excitement might lead to relapse; yet anxious to soothe
him, he added, ‘Trust in my humble services ever, and in the bounty of a
merciful Providence.’
‘I have had frightful dreams,’ said Ferdinand. ‘I thought I was in a
farm-house; everything was so clear, so vivid. Night after night she
seemed to me sitting on this bed. I touched her; her hand was in mine;
it was so burning hot! Once, oh! once, once I thought she had forgiven
me!’
‘Hush! hush! hush!’
‘No more: we will speak of her no more. When comes my mother?’
‘You may see her to-morrow, or the day after.’
‘Ah! Glastonbury, she is here.’
‘She is.’
‘Is she alone?’
‘Your father is with her.’
‘My mother and my father. It is well.’ Then, after a minute’s pause, he
added with some earnestness, ‘Do not deceive me, Glastonbury; see what
deceit has brought me to. Are you sure that they are quite alone?’
‘There are none here but your dearest friends; none whose presence
should give you the slightest care.’
‘There is one,’ said Ferdinand.
‘Dear Ferdinand, let me now leave you, or sit by your side in silence.
To-morrow you will see your mother.’
‘To-morrow! Ah! to-morrow. Once to me tomorrow was brighter even than
to-day.’ He turned his back and spoke no more. Glastonbury glided out of
the room.
CHAPTER XII.
_Containing the Intimation of a Somewhat Mysterious
Adventure_.
IT WAS absolutely necessary that Lady Armine’s interview with her son
be confined merely to observations about his health. Any allusion to
the past might not only produce a relapse of his fever, but occasion
explanations, at all times most painful, but at the present full of
difficulty and danger. It was therefore with feelings of no common
anxiety that Glastonbury prepared the mother for this first visit to
her son, and impressed upon her the absolute necessity of not making any
allusion at present to Miss Grandison, and especially to her presence in
the house. He even made for this purpose a sort of half-confidant of the
physician, who, in truth, had heard enough during the fever to excite
his suspicions; but this is a class of men essentially discreet, and it
is well, for few are the family secrets ultimately concealed from them.
The interview occurred without any disagreeable results. The next day,
Ferdinand saw his father for a few minutes. In a short time, Lady Armine
was established as nurse to her son; Sir Ratcliffe, easy in mind,
amused himself with his sports; and Glastonbury devoted himself to Miss
Grandison. The intimacy, indeed, between the tutor of Ferdinand and his
intended bride became daily more complete, and Glastonbury was almost
her inseparable companion. She found him a very interesting one. He
was the most agreeable guide amid all the haunts of Armine and its
neighbourhood, and drove her delightfully in Lady Armine’s pony phaeton.
He could share, too, all her pursuits, and open to her many new ones.
Though time had stolen something of its force from the voice of Adrian
Glastonbury, it still was wondrous sweet; his musical accomplishments
were complete; and he could guide the pencil or prepare the herbal, and
indite fair stanzas in his fine Italian handwriting in a lady’s album.
All his collections, too, were at Miss Grandison’s service. She handled
with rising curiosity his medals, copied his choice drawings, and even
began to study heraldry. His interesting conversation, his mild and
benignant manners, his captivating simplicity, and the elegant purity of
his mind, secured her confidence and won her heart. She loved him as a
father, and he soon exercised over her an influence almost irresistible.
Every morning as soon as he awoke, every evening before he composed
himself again for the night’s repose, Ferdinand sent for Glastonbury,
and always saw him alone. At first he requested his mother to leave
the room, but Lady Armine, who attributed these regular visits to a
spiritual cause, scarcely needed the expression of this desire. His
first questions to Glastonbury were ever the same. ‘Had he heard
anything? Were there any letters? He thought there might be a letter,
was he sure? Had he sent to Bath; to London, for his letters?’ When he
was answered in the negative, he usually dwelt no more upon the subject.
One morning he said to Glastonbury, ‘I know Katherine is in the house.’
‘Miss Grandison _is_ here,’ replied Glastonbury.
‘Why don’t they mention her? Is all known?’
‘Nothing is known,’ said Glastonbury.
‘Why don’t they mention her, then? Are you sure all is not known?’
‘At my suggestion, her name has not been mentioned. I was unaware how
you might receive the intelligence; but the true cause of my suggestion
is still a secret.’
‘I must see her,’ said Ferdinand, ‘I must speak to her.’
‘You can see her when you please,’ replied Glastonbury; ‘but I would not
speak upon the great subject at present.’
‘But she is existing all this time under a delusion. Every day makes my
conduct to her more infamous.’
‘Miss Grandison is a wise and most admirable young lady,’ said
Glastonbury. ‘I love her from the bottom of my heart; I would recommend
no conduct that could injure her, assuredly none that can disgrace you.’
‘Dear Glastonbury, what shall I do?’
‘Be silent; the time will come when you may speak. At present, however
anxious she may be to see you, there are plausible reasons for your not
meeting. Be patient, my Ferdinand.’
‘Good Glastonbury, good, dear Glastonbury, I am too quick and fretful.
Pardon me, dear friend. You know not what I feel. Thank God, you do not;
but my heart is broken.’
When Glastonbury returned to the library, he found Sir Ratcliffe playing
with his dogs, and Miss Grandison copying a drawing.
‘How is Ferdinand?’ enquired the father.
‘He mends daily,’ replied Glastonbury. ‘If only May-day were at hand
instead of Christmas, he would soon be himself again; but I dread the
winter.’
‘And yet the sun shines.’ said Miss Grandison.
Glastonbury went to the window and looked at the sky. ‘I think, my dear
lady, we might almost venture upon our promised excursion to the Abbey
today. Such a day as this may not quickly be repeated. We might take our
sketch-book.’
‘It would be delightful,’ said Miss Grandison; ‘but before I go, I must
pick some flowers for Ferdinand.’ So saying, she sprang from her seat,
and ran out into the garden.
‘Kate is a sweet creature,’ said Sir Ratcliffe to Glastonbury. ‘Ah!
my dear Glastonbury, you know not what happiness I experience in the
thought that she will soon be my daughter.’
Glastonbury could not refrain from sighing. He took up the pencil and
touched her drawing.
‘Do you know, dear Glastonbury,’ resumed Sir Ratcliffe, ‘I had little
hope in our late visitation. I cannot say I had prepared myself for
the worst, but I anticipated it. We have had so much unhappiness in our
family, that I could not persuade myself that the cup was not going to
be dashed from our lips.’
‘God is merciful,’ said Glastonbury.
‘You are his minister, dear Glastonbury, and a worthy one. I know not
what we should have done without you in this awful trial; but, indeed,
what could I have done throughout life without you?’
‘Let us hope that everything is for the best,’ said Glastonbury.
‘And his mother, his poor mother, what would have become of her? She
never could have survived his loss. As for myself, I would have quitted
England for ever, and gone into a monastery.’
‘Let us only remember that he lives,’ said Glastonbury.
‘And that we shall soon all be happy,’ said Sir Ratcliffe, in a more
animated tone. ‘The future is, indeed, full of solace. But we must take
care of him; he is too rapid in his movements. He has my father’s blood
in him, that is clear. I never could well make out why he left Bath so
suddenly, and rushed down in so strange a manner to this place.’
‘Youth is impetuous,’ said Glastonbury.
‘It was lucky you were here, Glastonbury.’
‘I thank God that I was,’ said Glastonbury, earnestly; then checking
himself, he added, ‘that I have been of any use.’
‘You are always of use. What should we do without you? I should long ago
have sunk. Ah! Glastonbury, God in his mercy sent you to us.’
‘See here,’ said Katherine, entering, her fair cheek glowing with
animation, ‘only dahlias, but they will look pretty, and enliven his
room. Oh! that I might write him a little word, and tell him I am here!
Do not you think I might, Mr. Glastonbury?’
‘He will know that you are here to-day,’ said Glastonbury.
‘To-morrow-----’
‘Ah! you always postpone it,’ said Miss Grandison, in a tone half
playful, half reproachful; ‘and yet it is selfish to murmur. It is for